


she knew to reach out

by keenquing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keenquing/pseuds/keenquing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle appreciates his desire to take care of her, but sometimes, the tables have to be turned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she knew to reach out

Normally, Belle was more than happy to have Rum brush her hair. Not because she couldn't or didn't want to do it herself—she'd never liked being waited on even when it had been as much of an expectation of her life as curtsying and dancing and marrying the 'right' man—but because she knew it made him happy. He seemed to get a certain pleasure out of doing things for her; making breakfast, doing her nails, smoothing out her curls. He'd never said anything about it, and Belle certainly wasn't going to be the first to broach the topic, but he seemed so much more at ease when he was—well, _waiting_ on her was really the best way to put it. Even on his worst days, when Regina had been getting under his skin or yet another attempt to find a way to break the curse on the town's line had failed, running a brush and then his fingers through her locks always seemed to calm him in a matter of minutes.

Well, usually. Tonight, it seemed, was an exception. She had no idea what had happened, only that his return from the shop had been heralded by a slamming door that made her drop the encyclopedia she'd been leafing through. It had taken half an hour to coax him to the couch, to just _sit down_ , and she'd had to all but force the brush into his hand.

Which, at this very moment, she was half-regretting. Belle was quite certain her hair was no more tangled than usual but even after ten minutes the brush kept snagging on her hair and in his irritated state, Rum wasn't taking the care he normally would have to delicately work the tangles loose with his fingers. He kept _yanking_ , cursing under his breath (and, as time went on, _over_ ) each time. Belle was sure he wasn't fully aware of what he was doing; other days, he stumbled over himself apologizing if he so much as burned her toast. But today, he was apparently far too wrapped up in whatever had upset him to notice.

Belle tried very hard to be patient with him at all times, always choosing her words carefully and often stepping away so she could hold her tongue at her most heated, when she'd have let loose on other people. She didn't think she coddled him, though; she just tried to give him the benefit of the doubt—knowing that, for her at least, he was always _trying_ ; something that made his fits of melancholy and rage somewhat easier to weather. But now, as she swallowed down another squeak as her head jerked under his tense ministrations, she thought a change of tactics might be in order.

She sucked in a deep breath, steeling her nerves as she thought about all the ways this could backfire right now. But this wasn't his castle; here, at least, he trusted her. It was that simple fact that gave her the courage to jerk away from him, quickly turning so they were face-to-face, and grab the brush from his hands all before he had a chance to realize what had happened.

“That's enough,” she said, quietly but firmly. She fought the urge to bite her lip when she saw his brow furrow, but at least his frown didn't grow any deeper. He looked more confused than upset, which at any other time would have made her giggle.

“Belle? What are you--” but he couldn't finish the question, because she put a gentle finger to his lips.

“You,” she said, meeting his eyes in what she hoped was a very serious stare, “are in one of the worst moods I've ever seen. I don't know why, and I don't need to,” she held up the brush, waving it a little, “but you are _not_ going to take it out on my hair.”

She saw his eyes widen as he was hit by the realization of what he'd been doing. He tried to speak, then, but she shook her head. Her face softened, a little, as she ran her thumb over his lip. “It's all right,” she said, sweetly. “I know you didn't mean to. But you did it all the same, so until you calm down, we're going to do something else.” She felt herself smiling, then—realising that, actually, this was something she'd wanted to try for some time now. She cleared her throat to keep from laughing as the confusion on his face grew, before she moved away from him a few inches, dropping her legs from her side so her feet were firmly planted on the floor. Then, she beckoned towards him with the brush,

“Come here,” she said, softly. She expected some token protests, assurances that she didn't need to do this. What she got, through, was another long moment of silence confusion before he let out a long breath of his own and moved over to her, turning a bit so the back of his head was angled towards her. This time, Belle couldn't keep the smile off her face and was very grateful he couldn't see it—even if he could probably hear it when she spoke.

“Good boy,” she said, sweetly—not sure where the endearment had come from, just that it felt _right_ as it rolled off her tongue. Her fingers delicately swept a bit of grey behind his ear—tips lingering just a moment before she started to smooth the tines over his hair.

Of course, it wasn't the work her own hair was, but that wasn't the point. She kept talking while she repeatedly moved the brush through his hair—not even thinking about the words, just letting them fall out, hoping if nothing else that her voice would calm his nerves. “I know you want to take care of me. And I appreciate that. But you work yourself too hard. You've always done that. I noticed that back home, too. Did you know that? I knew when some deal had gone bad, or you'd had to meet with someone you didn't care for. I always wanted to take care of you then, too.”

A little chuckle escaped from the back of her throat, as she ran her fingers through his hair, following the brush's course. “At least back then, I could bring you tea. You won't even let me do that, now.”

He made a noise of protest, but she shushed him. “I know. I know why you do it; you don't want me to feel like I'm your servant again, do you?” He didn't answer that, of course—they both knew the answer. She dropped her brush, then, leaning in close so her breath just barely brushed his ear. “But I never really felt like one, Rum. Not for long. You were never much good at playing master, you know.”

At that, she heard him snort and saw a bit of a smirk twist the corner of his mouth. She let herself giggle, then, before she pressed her lips to his temple. “I had more control over my life in your castle then I ever did back home,” she murmured. “You never treated me like I was less than you just because I was a woman. I suppose that's part of why I fell in love with you. Why I...” she bit off speaking of her attempt to break his curse in so many words. “...why I wanted to help you,” she finished, voice a bit softer. “You never saw how much you gave me. You still don't. Which is why,” she set the brush down, then, replacing the motion with making small circles at the nape of his neck with her fingertips, “I had to do _this_. You'll spend all that time taking care of me, but you won't spend one moment on yourself. And sooner or later, you'll fall apart and who do you think will be the one to have to pick up after you?”

She heard the tension in her voice, couldn't even think to keep it out then as she thought about all the things that could happen—so much worse than him pulling her hair. And she felt him tense under her ministrations, and after another long moment where the only motion was their breathing and her unconscious massage, she heard him swallow before he spoke very quietly—if she'd not been so used to paying very close attention to him, she might not have heard the next three words at all.

“I'm sorry, Belle.”

And, for some strange reason, that made her laugh. A watery, choked laugh to be sure—but it was a laugh nevertheless. “It's all right,” she assured him again—now wrapping her arms across his shoulders, tucking her head against the crook his neck. “I know you didn't mean me any harm. You didn't hurt me,” she had to be sure he knew that, above all else—that this hadn't been about a sore scalp. “I was just—I was _worried_.”

“I know,” one of his hands tightened over hers. “Or I should have, at any rate. It's why I wasn't saying anything to you. I didn't want you to get upset over me,” he chuckled darkly, “I certainly did a fantastic job at that, didn't I?”

“You were trying,” she assured him, squeezing his hand. “I know that. But—promise me, next time something happens--” she looked up to meet his eye, “you don't have to tell me what it is, but let me take care of you? I'm not—I can handle it, Rum. I promise. I _want_ to.”

He gave her a crooked smile, “All right, sweetheart,” he leaned in a bit to touch his lips to her forehead. “I promise.”


End file.
